


The Laws of Attraction

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Also He's a Police Officer, Another Alternate Universe One, Because I can, Emotions, I Will Explain What Created This One Later, Intergalactic Security Force, Jim Makes Everything Complicated, M/M, Space Pirates, Spock Is a Major Badass, Token City
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Spock is a police officer, James Kirk is a Pirate, and lying is the national pastime.</p><p>“It is not an infatuation,” Spock argues.  “It is merely an attraction.”  And it is perfectly manageable.<br/>“The thing about attractions,” his boss warns.  “Sooner or later, there’s always a crash.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I regret nothing.  
> Seriously, just imagine Spock in uniform and Pirate!Jim and you've pretty much summed up the entire purpose of this fic.  
> Anywho.  
> Star Trek is not mine, I will never write like the glorious, glorious Lanaea, and I hope that this is at least a little amusing to someone, even though I can't write action worth a crap.

“Spock, we have activity in sector R-6.” Pike’s tones are cool and professional in Spock’s headset. “Looks like assault and disturbing the peace.”  
  
“Copy,” Spock answers, spinning his hoverbike around. A plume of dirt rises behind it as he sends it roaring forward. It is an old model and much inadequate for policework. Its scanners and nav controls only spew gibberish—not that Spock needs navigation. That’s one of the benefits of being half Vulcan. “Coordinates?”  
  
“It’s at the bar on Chigath—“ Just as Spock begins to feel the pricklings of annoyance (kept tightly in their compartment, away from his calculations of the fastest route back to R-6), Pike sighs heavily. “Fine. It’s at A44639-Q.”  
  
“Copy,” Spock says again, adding this to his calculations. His hoverbike weaves and dips through the human and non-human traffic of Token City, with unobstructed grace. It’s currently 28:15 hours and the only people still active are nocturnal species and people who feel their activities benefit from shady corners. The nocturnals shy away from his bike because of its lights; the rabble rousers shy away because the last thing they want is police attention.  
  
“Kills me that you remember all that stuff,” Pike sighs. Spock considers briefly how horrible it must be to be a full human and not be able to memorize pertinent information at will. His course to A44639-Q permits arrival in 3.4786 minutes, give or take 1.34 minutes for unforeseen traffic events. “Go ahead and request backup.”  
  
“Negative.” Spock leans into a turn, whipping his bike up an alleyway. The vehicle complies reluctantly, with a splutter of exhaust that was _completely_ not necessary.  
  
Pike is instantly disapproving. “Spock, reports say there’s at least half a dozen involved in this. Request for backup _now_.”  
  
“Negative. Further assistance would be unnecessary.” Spock takes two more sharp turns, leaning down close to the bike to avoid being thrown off. Pike’s voice growls in his ear, disapproving, and Spock switches off the headset, before Pike can disrupt his emotional state further. As he tears through the last corner (bike giving an unholy screech of protest), he sees the disturbance.  
  
Sector R-6 is an area of ill-repute, termed “red light district” after Earth colloquialisms, or “storm harbor” after Nessuvian ones. Spock has been all around R-6 today; shut down two black market operations, participated in the arrest of one murderer, and written up 24 separate theft reports. The lights of his bike—standard blue and gold of the Inter-G Security Force—send a crowd of onlookers skittering back and out of his way.  
  
The coordinates have designated a bar, surrounded by gawping civilians. Spock strides through the thick of them, noting at least three individuals bearing contraband items (note: return for them when disturbance is neutralized). He steps inside the bar, heightened senses immediately assaulted with an overpowering stench of liquor, sweat, overpriced cigarette smoke, and mildew. These details are soon dismissed.  
  
Inside the building, seven individuals are engaged in their altercation—two burly male humans restrain a third party between them while a Klingon female kicks said party repeatedly in the groin (she appears unaware that her victim is Siluri, and therefore his testicles are placed 8.4 centimeters higher than where her boot is landing). Two more individuals are grappling on the floor, one bleeding copiously, and a seventh brawler is swaying to her feet, grabbing at the Klingon.  
  
Addendum: at a corner table, there is one humanoid watching the fight and drinking from an unwashed tin mug. Does not appear to be involved. Remain cautious.  
  
Spock downs the unsteady woman first. She collapses at his feet, but the others are either too inebriated or otherwise distracted to notice the officer’s presence. They figure it out when Spock’s fingers close sharply on the Klingon’s neck and she tumbles down with a heavy crash.  
  
“You are under arrest,” Spock informs them, placing his hands behind his back. “The charges are physical assault and disturbing the peace, pending further charge. Submit yourselves peacefully and you will be transported to your holding cells.”  
  
The badge on his chest gleams, displaying the ISF logo to the dimmed lighting and squinting eyes. A black flag with three stars—and with it, legal jurisdiction in any Federation galaxy.  
  
The humans drop the Siluri in a heartbeat and Spock swiftly dodges the fists swinging at his face. “Addendum,” he says, partially for the record and partially because it is their right to know, “Resisting arrest.”  
  
And then he spins his leg out in a kick that sends one of them shrieking into the bar stools. It collapses in a crunch of cheap materials beneath the man’s weight. (Incapacitated; momentarily stunned, possible concussion.) Spock ducks below another fist.  
  
A knee rockets up--deflect with his palm. Slip close. Spock redirects the assailant’s weight easily and deposits him on the bar floor. _Hard_. The first male is up again now, stumbling out of the wrecked furniture.  
  
The Siluri is fleeing. Of the two individuals previously committing violence on the floor, the bloodied one is unconscious and the other—Chitagan, male, lips pulled away from serrated teeth—is rising, eyes on Spock. That makes two to neutralize.  
  
Spock makes his calculations quickly, withdrawing out of reach as a human attempts to smash a chair over his head. The synthwood splinters on the floor, as Spock darts forward again. But as the distance closes, Spock’s arm is caught in a tight fist before he can strike. It is twisted behind him in a pressure lock by the human. Spock is halted. The Chitagan produces his wickedly gleaming knife.  
  
Spock wordlessly intercepts the knife, palm skidding past the blade. Force the arm wide, and twist—drive two fingers into the attacker’s wrist.  
  
There’s a howl of dismay; the knife skids across the floor. A fist delivers a minor injury to Spock’s back. Pain. Easily contained; neutralize for duration of altercation.  
  
Spock drives his elbow back twice, and on the second time, he makes the acquaintance of the criminal’s windpipe.  
  
There’s a choke, and Spock’s arm is abruptly released. The Chitagan attempts to retreat. But Spock is faster—obviously—and drops him with a nerve pinch. He does the same to the choking human, because the exaggerated wheezing is disturbing his calm. (He will not die. Spock applied exactly calculated pressure to damage, but not collapse a human windpipe).  
  
Six incapacitated and unconscious. Public disturbance averted. Siluri fleeing the scene, arrest necessitated.  
  
Spock steps outside the bar, locates the running Siluri, and gauges the distance. He picks up a rock, tests the heft, and aims at the back of the Siluri’s knee. There’s a shout, a thud, and Spock engages the tractor net on his belt to haul the alien back to the bar entrance. “It wasn’t me—you saw—?“ the Siluri begins to plead in garbled Standard, to which Spock responds with another Vulcan nerve pinch.  
  
Silence. All seven criminals retrieved and ready for tagging.  
  
Spock hauls the unconscious Siluri over one arm and returns to the bar, where he drops him with the others and performs basic first aid on the bleeding, unconscious humanoid. His incoherence, however, stems more from alcohol poisoning than blood loss. He will recover.  
  
Spock turns his headset back on. “Spock here, requesting Command channel.”  
  
Pike’s voice rushes back in. “God _dammit_ , Spock—“  
  
“Seven to transport to holding cells pending full charge and hearing,” Spock reports, sort of hoping that this will dissuade Pike’s lecture.  
  
It doesn’t. “I told you to request backup—“ But Spock hears Pike’s ancient computer console whirring to life as he codes the transport, so Spock lets his superior’s reprimanding wash over him. “You never listen, Spock. That’s your problem. And now you’re going to have to handle a whole stack of those procedural forms to fill out. I hope you know that.”  
  
“Negative,” Spock relays. “No weapons were discharged.” He’s only waiting for Pike’s computer to clear his transport, but he might as well talk to Pike because Pike gets testy when it comes to Spock’s particular brand of efficiency. Spock is doubly efficient than any other agent they have in Token City, but apparently it is to the detriment of “people skills.”  
  
It’s very illogical, but Spock has to work with Pike on a regular basis, so.  
  
Pike just swears some more. “Oh, so you just took down a bunch of—Jesus. A _Klingon,_ , Spock? How badly are you hurt, anyway?”  
  
Spock starts tagging his arrests. They do not stir at the process, which is not painful. Spock replies, “I am uninjured. At most, I have sustained light bruising and standard mental disruption at the non-pacifistic engagement.” Spock presses his tagger against the last criminal’s skin and watches the tag appear. Until it is removed, Command will have full knowledge of the location, vitals, and criminal record of each individual, as per the DNA bank.  
  
“Although, in the interest of full disclosure, I did throw one blunt projectile,” Spock adds, returning the tagger to his belt.  
  
Pike snorts. “This should be good. What projectile would that be?”  
  
“A rock,” Spock allows. Pike snickers into the com link and Spock rises back to his feet. He turns to regard the uninvolved humanoid—the one who is still sprawled comfortably in the corner seat, although it looks like the mug has run dry. The humanoid raises his empty beverage to Spock, who arches an eyebrow. Is he being saluted?  
  
“Alright, you’re clear to beam up,” Pike says. His tone heavily implies that this conversation will continue; Spock heaves an internal sigh. “Tagged them all yet?”  
  
“Affirmative. Tagging complete.” The unconscious figures around Spock’s feet begin to shimmer, dissolving into molecular components in the transporter beam. After a few seconds, the radiance is bright enough to cause retinal damage. Spock is not looking at them, of course. He switches off his headset and approaches the solitary human. “Greetings,” he says formally.  
  
The human (and at this distance Spock can identify him as male, Caucasian, and in a 20-30 age range) huffs a laugh. Spock is unused to the response. The human proceeds to correct Spock in a flamboyantly bizarre tone of voice, “ **Greetings, Earthling. Take us to your leader**.”  
  
Spock’s eyebrow juts just a little bit higher. “I am aware of your descent, Terran. And I do not require your superior, regardless of it.”  
  
“But you are so totally not aware of my pop culture references,” the human says cheerfully, vocal range returning to normal.  
  
A small, easily compartmentalized impulse rallies for Spock to just nerve pinch the human. He senses that their interaction is about to entail a great deal of trouble.  
  
The human smiles up at Spock. “What can I do you for, officer?”  
  
Spock cuts to the chase, “Were you involved in the violent proceedings that took place at this locale, first reported at 27:57 hours?”  
  
The human snorts. “Fuck no. Did you see those guys?” He swirls his empty mug and peers into it, muttering something that sounds like “fucking amateurs.” Spock dismisses this.  
  
“Are you prepared to give a statement to that effect?”  
  
The human peers at him again. “I just did.”  
  
“Very well.” Spock gestures for the human to stand. “You have just been detained as an official Federation witness. Stand by for transport—“  
  
And abruptly the human is on his feet and has put two meters between him and Spock. Remarkably spry for someone who had appeared so sedentary previously (note: Spock should not allow interpersonal distance to exceed ten meters).  
  
“Wait, wait…” The human’s hands are held up towards Spock, as if this will ward away a determined Vulcan. His voice is abruptly reassuringly cooperative, his smile is open and friendly, and neither fact prevents Spock from noticing that the human is retreating steadily closer to the building exit. Spock’s eyes narrow. “You’ve got this wrong. I just got here. I barely saw anything, and I wasn’t really paying attention. You know how these things are. And there was this girl. Hot damn was she fine—”  
  
“You have occupied that seat for at least two hours.” Spock advances without pretense. The human’s eyes go wide at Spock’s assessment. “Judging from the thermal energy surrounding it; therefore your statement is false. You witnessed the altercation from beginning to end.”  
  
“Oh, you have infared on that thing?” The human asks, nodding at Spock’s headset—and for a moment Spock sees what seems to be remarkably genuine curiosity. It transforms the human’s face, changing him from a smirking drunkard to someone almost… Childlike? The shift occurs in a matter of seconds, and is difficult to quantify. Unsettling. Spock dismisses it.  
  
“I was standing within 0.4 meters of your person, and I am sensitive to heat,” Spock finds himself replying, in spite of the fact that no explanation is owed. This is a strange sensation. His tone has grown overly casual as well, which is... uncharacteristic? Is he being influenced? The human’s eyes dart to Spock’s face searchingly. Spock stiffens.  
  
Whatever the human observes prompts him to announce, “Okay, you got me. But I was really, _really_ drunk? Fuck. Still drunk. Too drunk for this. I don’t remember any fight…”  
  
At this point the human backs into the wall. He freezes at the creak of his leather jacket against a solid surface, first. Then he turns his head, clearly surprised to find the door at least two steps away from his person, instead of conveniently en route for his escape.  
  
He looks back at Spock.  
  
Spock regards him pointedly. “You will stand by for transport.”  
  
“OK, that was awesome,” the human decides, sunny smile snapping back into place. “What was that, some spooky xeno-path mind trick?”  
  
It was, in fact, simple body language manipulation. The human’s destination—an escape route—was obvious and immobile, so all Spock had needed was to manipulate the human’s perception of where it would be. It is easy enough to communicate a slight change of course to the human with the repositioning of shoulders and hips.  
  
Humans are not complex creatures, particularly when inebriated.  
  
Spock is also able to snatch the back of his witness’s collar when he makes a break for the door.  
  
“If you interfere with my duties further, I will place you under arrest,” he informs the human briskly, grasping his arm and rolling the human’s sleeve down to reveal a cool, grimy strip of wrist. The human struggles frantically, but Spock has no difficulty restraining him long enough to press the tagger against it.  
  
“Ow, fuck!” The human howls. Spock suspects deception—this would not be the first time someone has feigned injury in order to get the tagger away, after all—however... “Get it off!” The human snaps, wriggling frantically, and Spock discovers that not only is there no tag on his skin, but he’s been burned. The tagger crackles, spewing sparks.  
  
Spock snatches the device away immediately, consulting its readings—and it’s fried. The readings are nonsensical. When Spock attempts a manual reset, the device dies entirely. It then fails to restart.  
  
Spock stares at the blackened screen.  
  
He is then forced to review that A) an officer may only visit harm upon another being in the interest of self-defense and B) Spock really should have just gone with the nerve pinch.  
  
“You are now under official arrest,” he tells the human, who is inspecting his wrist with an air of great suffering. This pretense is dropped quickly as Spock fastens the energy cuffs on him and grabs his shoulder, marching him to the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday, I said. And Wednesday it is! All hail (and for those of you who guess that this author is not only the king of gears, but also of fanatical procrastination, you know who to thank for that. All the epic and lovely reviewers who want to read more, particularly plyushka (who actually wrote a story to prod me on and you all should totally go read it!)
> 
> Anyway, this is all still prewritten stuff. I have 2 or 3 chapters' worth left for this story before we catch up to where I stopped... and I hope to improve on that long before you get there. Because, hey, I'm sure it will... go better... this time...
> 
> ...
> 
> Read on!
> 
> \----

Spock has been appraised of the superstition ‘some days, you just can’t win.’ He’s skeptical. It seems figuratively impossible that in a universe of infinite possibility, there could exist a scenario without even the slightest statistical loophole from which one might finagle victory.  
  
However, Spock also is concluding at _this_ moment, that in the event of a no-win situation, he will probably find this human present. Smirking.  
  
The human’s eyes have widened and he keeps trying to twist and get a look at Spock, as though he suspects treachery. “Wait just one minute! Why am I being arrested?! I _tried_ to warn you!”  
  
“Negative,” Spock responds. “You voiced no such warning.”  
  
Although much of the crowd has dispersed without a fight to wager on, Spock still passes one person carrying contraband items on his way out. He is extremely displeased about the fact that he is currently too incapacitated to do anything about it. If he cannot make an arrest, he is in no position to pursue justice (note: obtain backup tagger, priority level one).  
  
He continues to correct the human, “You attempted to depart without fulfilling your duties as a witness, and also are in possession of interference technology.” Spock leads the human to his hoverbike (perhaps more roughly than is strictly necessary, but Spock is officially having a bad day). “As you are no doubt aware, transport interference _of any kind_ is illegal under Federation law. Destruction of ISF property constitutes sabotage. Therefore, you are under arrest.”  
  
“I have a medical condition?” The human tries, grinning again—although the grin falls when Spock activates the hoverbike. “Officer, I’m not kidding. Check my file—it’s all in there. I can’t handle the transporter beam. I’ll start bleeding all over your nice standard-issue carpeting.”  
  
“I cannot consult your files,” Spock informs him. “Because my tagger is _non-functional_. You will return to the station with me, and your claims will be evaluated there.” As the human groans heavily, Spock addresses the hoverbike. “Assume two-person formation.” It fails to respond.  
  
Spock senses the human craning a head over Spock’s shoulder, observing. The human’s eyes _itch_ and Spock suspects that his mental compartments have begun to fail. The violence of the fight must have been more to his detriment than Spock has realized.  
  
“So… you deal with non-functionality a lot, I take?” The human asks, just enough flippancy in his tone to make Spock’s eye twitch.  
  
“ _Assume two-person formation_ ,” he repeats, and this time his vastly inadequate hoverbike responds—making a hideous screech all the while. Spock resists its cacophonic charms admirably; the human tries to cover his ears with cuffed hands—cannot—and swears at Spock. In spite of the noisiness, Spock’s vehicle does manage to reassemble itself into a small two-person hovercar, which Spock then adjusts further to accommodate prisoner transport. The hovercar produces restraints within the passenger seating apparatus.  
  
Spock marches the human to his seat, ignoring the way the man is looking around in highly exaggerated confusion and asking “what did you just say? I can’t hear you. I think I might be _deaf now_.”  
  
Note: it is obnoxious.  
  
Spock removes the energy cuffs once the human is seated. The hovercar’s restraints fasten automatically, locking the human’s arms and legs in place before a safety harness straps across his chest. The human suffers the process with pursed lips and drumming fingers, but Spock thinks he sees a hint of fascination somewhere in the human’s eyes.  
  
Spock tells him as a precaution, “You will refrain from engaging in displays of inappropriate behavior while in this vehicle.”  
  
The human rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m toilet trained and everything.”  
  
Spock ignores this, and slips into the driver’s seat. The hovercar lurches into the air with another groan, which the human echoes.  
  
“I can’t believe I have to fly in one of the rent-a-cop, piece of shit clown cars. What does this thing do? Six miles an hour? Ten?” He throws his head back into the headrest, which sparks another illogical burst of anger in Spock—that is not the human’s seat and his head is disrupting the indent left by the one who sits there.  
  
Spock switches on his headset instead of growling at the human like he wants to. “Spock here, Command. Have detained a witness to the altercation in A44639-Q bearing anti-transport interference technology. My tagger has been rendered non-functional; therefore I will deliver him to the station manually for statement and further investigation.”  
  
Pike is laughing at him.  
  
Spock stares forward expressionlessly, and when Pike eventually clears them, the hovercar practically leaps forward.  
  
Spock speeds the hovercar through the course mapped out in his brain. As per usual, he’s mostly ignoring the braking systems. His vehicle chews through the night air with unfettered ease. Though nightfall has made Token City cold, Spock’s uniform compensates, and the human does not seem concerned with the temperature drop. Spock suspects that if his hands weren’t restrained, the human would fling them out in a display of elation. As it is, he’s as far forward in his seat as he can get, grinning as the world rushes past them. And slowly, he starts to laugh.  
  
Probably because his head is no longer on T’Pring’s headrest, Spock finds himself more or less unbothered by the human now.  
  
“Holy shit, you’re actually good at this,” the human gasps after Spock spins the car around a hairpin curve. Security rails are close enough to touch on either side of the narrow street, but Spock’s margin of error is non-existent. After the turn there is a drop, and Spock makes no effort to slow down. He would not normally, and his passenger… Well.  
  
“I stand corrected,” the human says after Spock pulls them up out of the sheer drop without so much as a bounce and sends them howling down the interstate. “You’re amazing. I take back everything I—holy shit, you just missed that mirror by _inches_!—said about you being a rent-a-cop.”  
  
Spock does not reply.  
  
But he does still flip the car on its side to squeeze between two chunky maintenance drones (without slowing, clearly) and if the human’s shouts are anything to go by, he enjoys it.  
  
They hit an empty stretch 22.34 minutes into the ride, and the human subsides into the passenger’s seat with a dazed smile that looks much more inebriated than it did in the drinking establishment. “ _Hot_ damn.”  
  
(Note: this makes an average of 2.3 profane words per minute of speech. Spock has calculated this in yet another mental compartment formed to deal with the human’s commentary on Spock’s driving skills.)  
  
“So, clearly, you can drive.” The human’s tone is abruptly conversational. “You ever do any drag racing?”  
  
Spock frowns slightly. “I am an officer of the law.”  
  
“Yeah,” the human says with much exaggerated patience. “But, do you? Cause I’d pay money to see that shit.”  
  
Spock repeats his opinion on the matter.  
  
The human sighs. “Okay, fine. Good to know you’re not an android, anyway. This,” he takes a deep breath that seems to indicate the entire road they’re tearing through, “Isn’t something an android can do.”  
  
Spock’s frown deepens. “An android is capable of whatever its programming dictates.”  
  
“You really think so?” the human asks. “Not in my experience. You can program them to do a lot of things, sure. But the way you were driving just now? That takes instinct. Talent.” His voice deepens into something that makes Spock shift uncomfortably in his seat. “ _Enjoyment_.”  
  
…No, it doesn’t.  
  
Spock adheres to Vulcan principles. Instinct, pleasure-seeking—those things are not Vulcan. The way Spock drives is just particularly… efficient. It is the fastest route from point A to B.  
  
“Besides,” the human interjects, “You’re running this baby on manual. An android would turn it over to the computer.”  
  
The computer is broken, Spock wishes to tell him, but he’s decided that this conversation is hazardous to police protocol and he will not engage in it further.  
  
He’s chagrinned enough that the human managed to engage him in conversation in the first place (he’s speaking with someone charged with _illegal activity_ , honestly) but then the human goes, “So, if you’re not an android, you must be a Vulcan.”  
  
Which means that the human doubtlessly is aware of the fact that he’s just insulted Spock on a cultural level. _Enjoyment_. Spock keeps his eyes on the road and does not reply.  
  
“Feeling chatty today? Yeah, well, nice to meet you too, Officer T’Pring.”  
  
Spock is startled enough that for 1.4 seconds his concentration is not on the road. Fortunately, they are still on an unpopulated stretch.  
  
 _Her_ name makes Spock’s mental compartments shake and screech as separate frameworks grind together. The whole apparatus threatens to fall apart. Spock takes a deep breath of cold air and lets it lend stability to him. The moment passes.  
  
Spock’s voice is flawlessly indifferent. “You are in error. I am not Officer T’Pring.”  
  
“Really?” The human leans closer, pulling against his restraints to peer at Spock’s control screen. “The designation says this is the vehicle of an Officer T’Pring.”  
  
“Affirmative. This vehicle belongs to my partner, Officer T’Pring.”  
  
It would be preferable if they could stop saying her name now.  
  
Spock’s voice is very steady, and before he can clarify (or simplify things by telling the Terran to shut up), his headset goes off. It isn’t Pike this time. A gruff female voice asks, “Officer Spock, do you copy?”  
  
“Spock here,” he replies instantly. The human is dismissed as irrelevant. Nevertheless, out of the corner of his eye, he can see the human mouthing his name. _Spock. Spock?_ It is a distraction, and he would box it away if his shields hadn’t been so damaged by the mention of T’Pring. As such, Spock is in no position to control the annoyance he feels at the sight.  
  
He tries to ignore it. “I am currently on route to ISF Command Center R. State your business.”  
  
“We have a criminal fleeing the scene of a robbery on South End, near Sarfall Bypass.” Spock mentally converts that to coordinates, feeling another brief pulse of irritation. Imprecision should be _shot_. Between B45119 and B45387-N. The unknown factors chew at his control.  
  
The female informs him, “You are the closest officer of the law. Are you clear to pursue and make the arrest?”  
  
“Negative,” Spock answers quickly, trying to ignore the fact that the human is now staring at him with unabashed glee, like he can see the trouble coming and is having a hard time containing his excitement. “My tagger is defective and I am already transporting a criminal in my vehicle.”  
  
“State criminal classification,” the voice on the other end of the com link orders. Spock’s eyes narrow. With the way the human has started grinning, Spock is tempted to interpret his prisoner’s crime somewhat… creatively.  
  
But (reluctantly) Spock admits, “Possible Rank 3 to Crime Null.”  
  
“Robber is confirmed Rank 4,” Command informs him, and Spock experiences that sharp burst of vitriol that prompts so many other officers to swear. That classification means the robber has killed or severely wounded multiple individuals, in addition to grand theft. He is probably armed, and certainly dangerous. “You will pursue and arrest. Last seen at the West Bank on Lott’s End—“ _B45277-C_ , Spock corrects silently. “—heading towards the tunnels.” _B45280-D_.  
  
Spock takes a breath. His hands jerk hard on the hovercar controls and while there is some satisfaction in hearing all the air get driven out of the human’s body in a whoosh, it is insufficient when Spock has just been ordered to release him. Spock has misgivings about this. _Many_ of them.  
  
“Copy,” he growls instead, as his vehicle coughs a circle on the road. Spock shoots them back the way they came. The acceleration slams the both of them into their seats again, rougher than necessary, but Spock, as stated previously, is annoyed. And he can’t do a lot about it when his mind is struggling just to map out the Rank 4’s whereabouts, and the probability of where he/she/it is headed.  
  
“You’ve got new orders, don’t you?” The human next to him asks, suddenly radiant with excitement. “You’re going to have to let me go. Officer _Spock_.”  
  
Spock’s mouth twists and he accelerates further, just before they round the corner and head back into traffic. He’s hoping the whiplash will shut his companion up. It doesn’t.  
  
“Joyride! Freedom!” The human is bellowing into the air. “Sweet!”  
  
“Designate identification parameters,” Spock asks of Command as he dodges through traffic and nearly rams them into a sky trawler. His reflexes have been significantly slowed by his lapsing control. Spock’s jaw tightens, but he decelerates the car to compensate and focuses on extending his mental map.  
  
Where will a criminal go to escape police attention? What routes are available? They light up along Spock’s memory of the city, brightest where the Rank 4 is most likely to follow.  
  
“Identified as Aldello Athers,” Command relays. “Last seen wearing a brown jacket and high, unusual black boots.” Spock again curses vague observational skills. “Athers has been added to the criminal database. Please pull up his image on your vehicle’s control screen.”  
  
“I cannot,” Spock says through tightly clenched teeth, skidding through another intersection. By now, he has been forced to slow by a factor of 0.03, and the allowance grates just as much as the knowledge that his reflexes are off. He’s very aware that it shouldn’t _grate_ at all, but growing anger is the least pertinent of his problems. He keeps having to compensate for the reduced speed, which makes it quite a bit harder to figure out where he’s going to go. “My vehicle’s computer is defective.”  
  
There is a moment’s silence, in which Spock expects they are both feeling injudicious towards the underfunding of their department.  
  
“Athers is an Iniin,” Command eventually reports. “Male, seven foot two, with naturally armored blue scales on his back, forearms, and neck. Features distinctive among Iniin include the orange shade of his eyes and the swirled pattern upon his _tualhoc_.” From her tone, Spock infers that she doesn’t know what a _tualhoc_ is either.  
  
He makes a split second decision between right or left—towards the shipyard or the residential area, both with a high likelihood of interception—and chooses left.  
  
“This is awesome,” Spock’s current captive says with feeling. “But if you keep turning like _that_ , I’m going to be sick on your upholstery.”  
  
Spock shoots him a quelling look. “Copy, Spock out,” he offers Command. He switches off his headset, and estimates the time until he and the criminal have 67% or higher odds of intercepting each other’s visual range. 4.5 minutes.  
  
He then glances at the human. “You will not be sick in the interior of this vehicle.”  
  
“Saying it will not make it so,” the human supposes, giving Spock a rather sickly grin that has Spock’s hands tightening on the hovercar controls. “Actually, you know what? You can just let me out right here. Since you’re not proceeding with my arrest and all.”  
  
“Negative. I am in pursuit of a dangerous criminal and time is of the essence.” Nevertheless, Spock eases into the next turn. Just a little bit. He will not have this human soiling T’Pring’s car.  
  
“Ooh, who is it?” The human cannot possibly expect Spock to answer that question. And yet he’s staring at Spock with the openly curious expression from the bar… the one that makes it very hard not to answer.  
  
“An Iniin robber, potentially a murderer as well,” Spock admits, wondering just what has compelled him to do so. The human is… visually pleasant (and no, Spock is not immune to attractively symmetrical features and the like, no matter what Pike insists). But his smile has done nothing to Spock except make him want to render the human unconscious; on the other hand, this expression has… puzzling effects.  
  
“Named Athers,” Spock adds impulsively, and feels like kicking himself.  
  
Abruptly, he sees something in the human’s face. Spock’s eyebrow rise for reasons that have nothing to do with self-recrimination. “You are familiar with this individual,” Spock observes.  
  
The human winces. “Not really. But I may have heard of him. Once or twice. In passing. Sort of.” And then he gets uncharacteristically quiet while Spock winds through a maze of residential streets. It has already been 4.7 minutes and Spock hasn’t seen anything matching the descriptions he was given. He tries to control his misgivings.  
  
The human suddenly asks, “So, you’ll let me out when you find Athers, right? And I’ll go running for the nearest bit of cover?”  
  
“Negative,” Spock replies, scrutinizing the area—which necessitates slowing further. Spock’s grip on the manual controls tightens. “You will remain in the vehicle until Athers is apprehended.”  
  
Before them, the residential streets are almost entirely empty. This street honeycombs its way between housing facilities, and Spock’s headlights only cut through empty air. A few startled nocturnals wince at the glaring light, but none of them is tall enough to be an Iniin.  
  
“You’re joking!” And now the human is dismayed, which means he’s gotten loud again. Spock can’t help but shoot him an annoyed look because they are in pursuit of a criminal and while the hovercar isn’t exactly subtle, nothing is improved by a human wailing in the passenger seat. “You said he’s armed, right? He could have a _photon cannon_. He could have a phaser with jacked settings. He could have hypos full of evil. And you’re just going to leave me sitting in here like the last slice of pizza? What kind of cop would even—?”  
  
“I cannot be responsible for your actions,” Spock answers. He grits his teeth as the statistics of locating Athers begin to plummet. He has gone beyond his estimated interception zone. Probability of visual contact—now 53%. 48%. Spock immediately devotes another compartment of his mind to determining where Athers would be if Spock hypothesized the wrong escape route, and whether Spock is still capable of arriving in time.  
  
“Do not do this,” the human whines, successfully shattering Spock’s concentration. “Do you even know what Athers is famous for? He likes to shoot his enemies when they’re asleep. When they’re total sitting ducks, Office Spock.” The human rattles his restraints in a vicious motion that upsets the hovercar slightly. Spock throws him a less than professional look. “ _Do I need feathers_?”  
  
“I do not intend for you to be shot.” Spock tells him. “I intend to incapacitate Athers before he might think to approach you.”  
  
 _Although the longer you insist on distracting me, the more favorable I will be towards such an outcome._ Only not really; Spock is a police officer. No matter how broken his emotional control. (Note: protocol is very clear on this. Sadly.)  
  
“However, I also do not intend to give you the opportunity to shoot me.” Spock adds. “Criminal elements have been known to form alliances against police forces with less provocation. So you _will_ remain in place.”  
  
“I wouldn’t shoot you!” The human says with a remarkable display of wounded outrage. “Come on, Officer, you know me better than that…”  
  
Spock raises an eyebrow.  
  
“ _Please_?” The human hisses.  
  
“You will not be shot,” Spock tells him, very nearly snapping. “Be silent. I must think.” He needs to calculate how far Athers is to the shipyard, because the residential area was clearly a mistake. Spock rounds a corner, automatically headed for the next intersection leaving the residential area, and…  
  
Brown jacket, tall figure, Spock sees a flash of aqua blue as his headlights hit the individual’s skin—scales.  
  
For a moment, Athers continues to saunter along, trying to project an image of civilian innocence, but then he must notice that the lights behind him are blue and gold. Spock jerks the hovercar sharply to the right as he sees the Iniin’s shoulder twitch, and barely in time. The criminal spins around with breathtaking speed, firing crackling shots centimeters from Spock’s ear.  
  
In a moment of grand cosmic irony, it really is a photon cannon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with this chapter. Clearly.
> 
> But if I don't put it up, I'll just keep sulking over it like a hairier version of Gollum, and I'm told that's not terribly productive. Whatever.
> 
> It should improve after this, I hope.
> 
> Eventually, I will figure out how to write action without it sucking so much...  
> \----

“Shitfuck!” Yelps the human as Spock flings them out of the way of a second volley, hovercar engines wheezing a protest. Spock’s body informs him that he has sustained a wound somewhere, but he doesn’t have time to untangle the message from the rest of his snarled thoughts. Athers takes off running, Spock’s human is shrieking, and Spock guns the accelerator. The whole hovercar shakes, but for once doesn’t throw its usual fit, and instead lurches at Ather’s heels.  
  
Spock switches on the microphone. “ **Aldello Athers**.” His voice booms into the neighborhood, surely startling a great many citizens awake. Paperwork will follow this, but Spock is too shaken up to devote much thought to that (note: he requires meditation at the _earliest convenience_ ). “ **You are under arrest. The charges are—** “  
  
Athers whirls around, firing two screaming blasts at the car with his cannon. Spock dodges them again, barely managing to curb the car’s spin before they fly into an apartment complex. “ **Charges—** “  
  
Athers unleashes another attack, and Spock’s eye starts twitching. “Let me _finish_ ,” he growls under his breath, and gropes for his phaser. Athers chooses this moment to bring his cannon around once more.  
  
There is nowhere for the car to go. If he swerves, they will crash into a civilian home; if they maintain course for 2.2 milliseconds longer, they will die in a wave of compressed plasma.  
  
Spock brakes hard, seizes the back of human’s head in one hand and deactivates the hovercar with the other. They crash down on the road, jarringly, skidding forward with an unholy noise. Spock drops himself as far forward as possible, dragging the struggling human with him.  
  
The blasts sizzle just over Spock’s neck. _Just_.  
  
Spock’s phaser is in hand before he sits up and realizes that Athers is nowhere in sight. Again, he reexamines the human propensity to swear during complex situations.  
  
It’s alright, though. His human companion more than makes up for it. “Shit, shit, shit,” the foulmouthed being is gasping at his knees—Spock realizes that he still has a vice grip on the human’s neck and releases him. He then scans the area intently, silently, seeking any irregularity.  
  
And there is none. Athers is gone.  
  
As is the top half of the hovercar.  
  
Spock’s eyes snap, dismayed, to the control panel. The controls half melted, and clearly non-functional. “That doesn’t look too good,” the human remarks in a hushed voice. “Can you still drive this?”  
  
Spock is not sure he can _touch_ it, given the heat it’s radiating. After a moment the human observes glumly, “You can’t get the restraints off either, can you?”  
  
Spock glances over at the passenger seat. The human’s forearms and ankles remain tightly contained in metal clamps. The alloy of said clamps was designed to sustain two metric tons of pressure before it _might_ be in danger of buckling. The human’s fingers drum on the armrests as Spock regards him.  
  
“There is a manual override,” Spock admits, and scans the area once more. No Athers. Prioritizing, Spock twists out of his own safety harness. The human watches this with wide, astonished eyes and babbles something along the lines of “wow, okay I did not know that—about the arrest restraints I mean—oh seriously? Just how flexible _are_ you?”  
  
Spock ignores this and slides as close to the human as he can get without actually touching him. His control has been damaged such that processing an ordinary human’s panic and fear might render him non-functional. Spock has had… _plenty_ of non-functional for one evening.  
  
Spock feels his way along one wrist restraint until he detects a hinge. Like most things that move, it has a pressure point to be exploited.  
  
Alright, so Spock’s “manual override” is actually more like breaking his Command issue equipment. It takes two tries before he finds the right angle and the hinge gives a brittle crack. The restraint doesn’t come off, but it loosens enough for the human to drag his wrist out. The human flexes his fingers in front of his face and in the pale light of Token City’s four moons, he gives Spock a wide, slightly giddy smile.  
  
Spock freezes at the sight of it for 2.2 seconds, his eyes widening in response. His primary emotion is not annoyance.  
  
The human’s eyes—they are blue, Spock can see in this light, very blue—turn into slivers of ice too fast to contemplate a single outcome. The phaser is ripped from Spock’s fingers in the same millisecond, then trained dead on Spock. _Criminal elements have been known to form alliances_ , Spock thinks, brain sluggish with wrecked emotion and physical violence and T’Pring, always T’Pring. The human pulls the trigger without pause.  
  
And Spock doesn’t get shot.  
  
There’s a cry of rage, and Spock’s brain catches up to the proceedings. He spins around—Athers is behind him, tossing aside a photon cannon with a smoking hole torn through the middle of it.  
  
Spock catches the criminal’s incoming fist before it puts a dent in his skull, deflecting as much of the blow as possible. On average, an Iniin male has physical strength exceeding that of a Vulcan’s by a factor of 1.3.  
  
Spock is not a full Vulcan. His strength reflects this.  
  
Spock’s shoulders scream in protest, ripping through what’s left of his careful compartmentalization, and Spock is moving on instinct.  
  
His knuckles crack against blue scales. The scales are armored—face, then. Solar plexus. Stomp on the instep. Spock swipes the scaled surfaces aside. He’s not consulting knowledge of Iniin physiology; he is lashing out and noting the areas that the alien curls to protect. The Iniin reels back, off-guard, and through the contact in their flesh Spock can feel confusion—  
  
 _—Hurts, hate them, prey should not be so—_  
  
Spock’s hand lands on unprotected skin and Athers is reflected in Spock.  
  
 _Anger, hate, prey_. There are no shields left to separate them. He snarls and smashes his hands down on the Iniin’s ears. Xenophysiology there may be, but in creatures with terrestrial ears: eardrums are eardrums.  
  
Athers falls with a scream as his eardrums burst, body forming a spherical defensive position—his scales are now in the way. Spock tilts his head, calculating mindlessly how best to deliver harm.  
He drives the heel of his foot into the unprotected area in Athers’s side and is rewarded with a squeal of pain. Repeat application. There is an unidentified sound in the air. Localized. Snarling, low and threatening because there is danger, and Spock will neutralize it, Spock will _end_ it—  
  
And another sound interrupts. Spock focuses instantly. He turns. Analyzes the sensory data.  
  
Human. Weak and pale. Restrained, but aiming a phaser at Spock. _Neutralize_. Spock sinks lower, preparing to dodge. And then charge. _What easy prey—_  
  
He stalks forward, leaving Athers groaning on the ground. “Hey, Officer?” the human calls.  
  
Spock rumbles another warning. The human’s eyes widen. “Ooo _kay_. Alright, Officer Spock. I think you’ve been off your meds a _little_ too long now, so why don’t you just back away and take some deep breaths?” Spock continues to advance, eyes trained on the weapon.  
  
“Uh, officer? Your hearing me at all?”  
  
 _Hate, kill, prey._  
  
“I seriously will shoot you. Please back the fuck off?”  
  
 _T’Pring—cannot register—I will not consider it. Maintain objective. Prey. Neutralize threat._ Spock's weight shifts, fingers tensing to deliver traumatic force.  
  
The human hisses through his teeth. “Officer, goddammit, I do not want to shoot you. SPOCK, SNAP THE FUCK OUT OF IT!”  
  
 _Loud_ , Spock notes.  
  
Grudgingly, he thinks that it’s very… annoying.  
  
Spock’s advance is cut short. There is an echo in his ears, and abrupt silence. He has ceased growling.  
  
Awareness seeps back into Spock slowly, and with it, the awful sensation of Athers in his mind. Spock shudders, going still as he seeks to purge the criminal’s influence. It is like thorns crawling within him, foreign and contemptible.  
  
“Shit,” he hears. A phaser goes off. Spock does not care if it has hit him. He merely wants to get Athers out, out, out—he cannot. The criminal’s influence has coiled deep within the cracks Spock has worn in himself. Inescapable. Undesirable. Spock can’t breathe.  
  
He is _infected_.  
  
He wants to tear himself open—and before he can, cool hands collide with his skin. The force makes Spock gasp for breath like he’s been thrown across a room. His shields are _gone_ , so the human’s emotions flow into him like water. They are almost the same being. Spock grasps these hands between his fingers. He… does not move them.  
  
He holds the human in place instead, drawing in great gulps of air and emotions that do not burn in the heart of him. The human’s thoughts move to fast for Spock to understand (not while he’s being rent apart, anyway), but Spock’s mind has decided that it is utterly compatible with the human’s presence.  
  
 _Are you shaking?_ The words are spoken aloud, but Spock can only feel them, vibrating deep into his shattered control. _Oh shit, don’t do that? I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with a freaked out Vulcan. Shit, shit, shit! Uh, just breathe. OK, you’re doing that… Good._ Keep _doing that. Should I not be touching you?_  
  
He squirms; Spock’s grip tightens, flattening the sweaty, tranquilizing skin to his own. Spock trembles with intense relief.  
  
Softly, tentatively, gentle enough that Spock could live on it, _Officer Spock?_  
  
All he can feel are flutters of concern and a sensation that is of Spock’s own design created in response to what he feels. It is _so good._ The things in this human _are_ good. Spock pulls them around himself and spins them into shields, and wants to drag their influence even closer.  
  
With the human’s presence guarding him, Athers’s influence is easy to exterminate. And then Spock is just holding the human’s mind to his because he wants to. He _requires_ it. Peace. Warmth, exquisite bliss rarer than a butterfly in the towering city. Not since T’Pring died—but Spock doesn’t want to think about her right now. Doesn’t want to think at all. He just—this human.  
  
He wants to feel.  
  
Spock is not recovered, but he could stay wrapped up like this until he is well. Learn extensively what each of these things are, what is making his _katra_ sing—  
  
No. It is because Spock is not recovered. That is why he considers this; he does not wish to be in this place, nor should he. Not with this human. Not with anyone.  
  
 _Officer Spock?_  
  
Spock’s eyes open.  
  
The human has crouched before him (because Spock is on his knees in the middle of an absolutely filthy street in a public area; the horror of this situation is intensely upsetting) and smiles nervously as their eyes meet. Spock is gratified to see that the human’s eyes have lost all traces of coldness. They are only beautiful and perfect, all but glowing the moonlight—  
  
Spock hurriedly jerks away. “Apologies,” he says at once, and is furthermore dismayed to hear how hoarse his voice has grown. After all the… the growling. Spock’s face burns in its embarrassment, and he forces himself to focus on the matter at hand. Athers, making the arrest, getting his limbs to cooperate with what he’d like them to do.  
  
He barely turns his head before it jerks back towards the man stumbling to his feet in front of him.  
  
“You are hurt,” he observes, automatically grabbing the human’s hand. The sleeve of this hand is mostly burned away and the forearm itself requires medical treatment. The skin is charred. This is _unacceptable—_  
  
A narcotic wave of euphoria accompanies the sensation of touch and Spock slams up a blockade against it, until he’s just getting a low-level buzz of pleasure. Until he can think.  
  
The human has been damaged. It is not just this arm. The same can be said of the human’s calves—Spock looks up, appalled.  
  
“Huh? _Oh_ —just phaser burns,” the human says sheepishly, shrugging his way out of Spock’s hold. “I thought the other restraints might not hold up under the highest setting and—Look, are you even alright?” He looks Spock over, squinting in the dark as though he did not just get perilously close to amputating his own limbs. “Pardon my saying so, but you were _freaking the fuck out_ , Officer. I was kind of worried you were about to start gushing blood or something. Or explode.”  
  
Spock regards the human blankly. “Spontaneous combustion would be unlikely,” he finally allows.  
  
The human raises his eyebrows. “So gushing blood wouldn’t be?”  
  
Spock decides to ignore this. This time he does turn, and finds Athers, surprisingly, just where Spock left him.  
  
He also appears to be thoroughly unconscious, which is not how Spock left him.  
  
Spock looks back to the human, who is in the process of rearranging his leather jacket around himself. “What?” He demands, noticing Spock’s gaze. “I’m cold, you ass. And I only shot fuckhead over there with the stun setting, and that was because he was _crawling_ towards you.” The human scowls at Spock’s shoes. “ _Crawling_. Who even does that? Crazy people, that’s who!”  
  
“Your valor in this situation is… appreciated,” Spock admits. The human resumes peering at his face, but Spock does not meet his eyes. Now that the immediacy of the confrontation has worn off, Spock is deeply ashamed. This arrest should have been nothing but routine. Instead Spock damaged Federation equipment, endangered and injured a civilian, and nearly lost track of a criminal (twice).  
  
But the absolute worst of it is that Spock lost control. Pike was right. Spock has been made thoroughly defective.  
  
Non-functional.  
  
Spock roots himself firmly back in the moment and switches on his headset. “Spock to Control. Come in.” The human takes a moment to examine the burns—which are _bleeding_ , Spock realizes with a sharp pang in his stomach—and starts to pick at them. Spock seizes his arm and presses it firmly back to the human’s side. This earns him an evil look.  
  
This time it is Pike who contacts him. “Jesus, Spock! You know you’re supposed to check in with some regularity, right? What happened to you?”  
  
And this right here is another prime example of why the Inter-G Security Force desperately needs an overhaul. The ISF has been stretched far too thin with the Federation’s expansion. Case in point? Intercommunication between its police divisions, because Pike clearly has no idea what Spock has been doing for the past…  
  
And Spock doesn’t know the time either. His internal clock has been completely taken offline. The knowledge makes it difficult to breathe.  
  
Spock keeps his dismay tightly reined in. “I was required to make an arrest, and therefore had to deviate from my intended destination.”  
  
Pike is momentarily silent. And then, “Spock, you sound like you got the crap kicked out of you.”  
  
“I am unharmed,” Spock says, which makes the human at his side snort and mouth “bullshit” at him. Spock is dimly aware that several of the bones in his hand have broken, and that he has sustained proximity burns from the photon cannon. He also believes a few of his ribs are cracked from his struggle with Athers.  
  
He amends, “ _Mostly_ unharmed.”  
  
Both the human and Pike snort and Spock feels very put-upon. “Regardless, I have a… civilian in my custody. He is in need of medical aid.” The human in question makes a face, and tries to bat Spock off of him, but Spock cannot release him in good conscience when the human seems so determined to exacerbate his wounds with prodding fingers.  
  
“Any particular reason why you’re telling me, instead of getting him to the nearest hospital?” Pike asks slowly, exasperation replaced with a seriousness that Spock has come to trust in his seven years in on the force.  
  
“My vehicle has been damaged.” Spock glances back at it and immediately wishes he hadn’t.  
  
A great deal of the hood is melted in addition to most of the top, and the crash landing apparently took off the front bumper. One of the headlights is just… gone. “Rather extensively so,” Spock admits.  
  
“So you’re saying you need transportation for the civilian, the criminal, and yourself.” Spock does not miss Pike muttering about how much this sounds like a bad joke, and merely focuses on deep breaths and trying to form what mental compartments he can. “Alright, I’ve got an ambulance and a patrol car on their way. Anything else you need to tell me?”  
  
For a moment Spock considers not saying anything. But his eyes do a slow sweep of the damage—Athers, the hovercar, and the human Spock should not have needed to rely upon. Even now, he can feel the human’s mind faintly, a fierce temptation. As his eyes meet the human’s, a tremor goes up his arm, demanding that he shift his fingers down, off of the sleeve he’s using as a buffer, so their skin can touch.  
  
“Officer?” The human asks, wary and curious. As he has every right to be. Because he has witnessed Spock lose his mind.  
  
“Affirmative,” Spock says quietly into his headset. “Sir. Your initial deduction of my mental state was correct. I am not fit for duty.”  
  
The world narrows down into Pike’s slow sigh on the other end of the line. Spock feels every second of his disappointment like an eternity. He swallows, and turns his face away from the human’s prying eyes as much as he can.  
  
And Pike says exactly what he’d said when he found Spock calmly doing paperwork in his office on Stardate 2259.51, 02:00 hours. The morning after Spock had held T’Pring in his arms as she bled out and told him she’d been wrong.  
  
“I want you to see a psychiatrist.”  
  
And this time, because Spock’s had “I am functional, I do not require supplemental assistance” proven so wrong to him, Spock croaks, “I will do so.”  
  
“Sit tight,” Pike says. The communication cuts out and Spock takes a deep, fortifying breath before he switches the headset off. The human regards him with open curiosity. Spock returns the gaze silently, attempting to intimidate him into silence.  
  
It succeeds.

\----

When the ambulance arrives, Spock is unsurprised to see that they decide to take Athers (drugged to the gills and smothered in restraints, of course) as well as the human. Spock’s lapse in control has left Athers with many serious injuries.  
  
The human gets loaded into the ambulance with less fanfare, but the two female paramedics seem utterly charmed by his smiles and ability to speak at excess, so Spock is not exactly concerned about his welfare.  
  
A few of the paramedics have started shooting Spock slightly manic looks, but he’s still delivering his report to the attending police officer. They go over Athers first, and then the human.  
  
Spock automatically glances at the human in question when Officer Rivens asks for identification. The human appears to be little more than a leg and a tuft of blonde hair peeking out from beneath enthusiastic paramedics. Spock suppresses another flare of irritation.  
  
“He is a Crime Null civilian, and not to undergo transport.” At the Riven’s questioning look, Spock explains, “He has a medical condition.”  
  
And if Spock is a little unsettled with his sudden willingness to lie to his fellow officers, he chalks it up to fractured control and the knowledge that if the human really was convicted for possession of anti-transport technology… Spock doubts whether he’d actually be able to let the law pass. Or whether he’d have to stage a jail break to free the mind that had been so overwhelmingly _perfect_ against Spock’s.  
  
He’s preventing a greater crime with a lesser one. In effect.

\----

The paramedics have been adequately trained. They understand that when Spock tells them he is of Vulcan descent and has had a rough evening, this means: _Touch, and Thou Shalt Receive a Swift Nerve Pinch to Thine Neck_. They keep away from him. Spock is allowed his own little patch of quiet between the sedated Iniin and the human who is wrinkling his nose at the sensation of the dermal regenerator. Spock attempts meditation.  
  
It fails.  
  
“So, Officer Spock,” the human says abruptly, tilting his head past the paramedics so that their eyes meet. “I expect to be seeing a lot of you from now on.”  
  
“Negative,” Spock says coolly, closing his eyes to attempt meditation once more. “I do not expect to meet again. Desist in being arrested.”  
  
This makes the human laugh. The sound is abruptly bright and heart-stopping and Spock grits his teeth, searching for control that isn’t there. “You make it sound like we’re not friends.”  
  
“We are no such thing,” Spock confirms. Silence follows this. The paramedics have grown silent, treating this conversation like a late-night holovid. Spock tries not to resent this (and fails).  
  
“I saved your life, you saved mine.” The human (somehow Spock’s eyes are open, for reasons that he cannot fathom) is gesticulating between them as if sewing some frightful bond between their persons. Spock automatically shifts away. “So yeah, that makes us friends.”  
  
“Your logic is fallacious,” Spock informs him.  
  
“I’ll work on it,” the human promises, although whether he is referring to his logic or their non-existent friendship, Spock cannot discern. “So anyway, I’m Jim. Nice to meet you, _Officer_.”  
  
And now he holds a hand out towards Spock. Five paramedics hold their breath, perceiving just how deep of a faux-pas this is, particularly to a Vulcan, particularly to a Vulcan whose mental stability is in jagged little pieces at his feet.  
  
The human—Jim—wiggles his fingers at Spock hopefully. “Come on. You know you want to. Secretly, beneath all that Vulcan-ness, you totally want to shake my hand and be friends forever.”  
  
And Spock _does_. He feels a prickle of sweat on the back of his neck with how intensely he wants the skin-to-skin contact but now is the time to start putting himself back together. He closes his eyes instead, determined to, if not meditate, look like he’s doing so. “Greetings.” His voice is harsh, even to his ears. “ _Jim_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, Spock's getting obstinate... and Sherlockian. But mostly, it's the obstinate.
> 
> Which I had so much fun writing. Yes! Early update, by the way. Out of town for a while, no computer, you know the shtick.
> 
> Betcha T'Pring is different from how you guys thought she'd be. I have oodles and oodles left to write about these two... *grins* I love messing with the canon past.
> 
> Anyway, onward! Enjoy the therapy, and be thankful it is not you!  
> \----

Spock’s first impression of Doctor Ellisha Myrceen’s office is that it is illogical to have so many coffee mugs. There are 28 mugs, and not a single one holds _coffee_. Pens, paperclips, lollipops, and other knickknacks—one is devoted to a large orange slinky that Spock regards with distaste. It resembles a weapon favored by Betazoid outlaws that peels the mind apart. Spock has to this date confiscated 18 of these weapons.  
  
The overall impression is that many people have visited Myrceen’s office, failed to collect their dishware, and that Myrceen simply took the colonization in stride.  
  
Spock does not approve. Doctor Myrceen smiles at him. “Would you like to sit, Officer Spock?”  
  
Spock responds with a prompt negative. Her smile falters. A silence follows in which Spock assumes the doctor is collecting pertinent psychological data, but doesn’t entirely understand how she is accomplishing this by blinking at him.  
  
“Can you explain why you don’t want to sit?” She asks, leaning forward in her own chair. She is seated at a black desk, behind a wall of illogically decorative coffee mugs.  
  
“Inefficient usage of time,” Spock suggests. Additionally, she has several chairs, all of which are a different color, and Spock somehow feels like he’s been involved in a hideously unsubtle multiple choice test.  
  
Unfortunately for him, Myrceen’s smile widens at his statement. “I don’t mind if we’re a little inefficient today, Officer Spock. Please sit.” She gestures.  
  
Spock stiffly approaches the seats. He selects the one that seems to have the least amount of supplemental padding. It is purple.  
  
He sits and sinks several inches down into the upholstery. If the doctor notices his distaste, she doesn’t comment on it. “First of all, Officer, may I call you Spock?”  
  
Spock inclines his head. “You are my superior. It is your choice.”  
  
“Then you may call me Elli, alright?”  
  
Spock regards her at length. He will continue to call her Doctor Myrceen, because that is her title.  
  
His silence is taken as acquiescence anyway. “Is there anything you’d like to share with me today, Spock?”  
  
“Negative,” Spock reports.  
  
“Why don’t you think about it for a little while? Maybe something will occur to you.” Her smile is very friendly and Spock is instantly suspicious of it. Friendliness: a demonstration of goodwill meant to oblige an individual to offer you something. In this paradigm, Spock is the one who needs something from her. He needs to be cleared as psychologically fit so Pike will repost him to active duty.  
  
What the doctor wants, Spock has no idea. Potentially, it is more coffee mugs. (Note: bribery is an illegal. Look up doctor’s coffee mug collection at earliest convenience.)  
  
Doctor Myrceen folds her hands between the swarming mugs and holds Spock’s gaze for 10.123 minutes of absolute silence.  
  
Spock determines that this silence is unlikely to end until he offers a personal statement. “Your fingernails are blue,” he observes.  
  
The doctor’s smile doesn’t waver. Instead she looks down and examines her fingernails. “They are, aren’t they? What do you think?”  
  
She holds them out for Spock’s inspection. He bends forward to observe.  
  
“The color was achieved through a standard paint substance,” he states. “This particular shade of blue is carried in three cosmetic outlets within 30 kilometers, but you bought it at Leeso, because your shade of lipstick is unique to that shopping venue, and because you walk to work; Leeso lies on the most common thoroughfare between this office and the residential districts.”  
  
The doctor’s eyebrows have gone up, but she doesn’t deny any of this. Obviously not. Although her clothing is in keeping with Federation fashion, her shoes appear remarkably practical—additionally they are scuffed and dirty around the soles (although the upper areas have all been polished to a deceptive shine). How could she not walk to work? That alone raises the chances of her shopping at Leeso to 87%.  
  
Spock continues his analysis, “Rippling effect indicates two coats of paint at minimum, necessitated to conceal the previous color of your nails, which is nevertheless slightly apparent around your cuticles. Judging from the lingering chemical smell and the chipping patterns, you painted your nails 2 days and 16.3 hours ago.” He leans back into his awkwardly padded chair and tries to maintain a sense of professional dignity while cushions swallow him. “According to statistics, 54% of humanoids find that shade of blue to be aesthetically pleasing.”  
  
Doctor Myrceen withdraws her hand and looks at her nails for a moment. “How impressive,” she says, looking back up at Spock. Her smile has not shifted in any significant way, although she is showing more of her teeth. “Are you a fan of cosmetics, Spock?”  
  
“Negative,” Spock replies. He has no cosmetic scent or discoloration upon him. He will never understand where non-Vulcans get their strange notions from.  
  
The doctor folds her hands together on the table. Amidst the coffee mugs. Spock sighs through his nose and tries to ignore their irrationality. “I can’t help but notice that you chose to talk about me, Spock.”  
  
Spock would rather hope that she had not missed this, as it would indicate a glaring mental problem. He thinks to say, “I was unaware that you were off-limits as a topic of personal insights.”  
  
“Of course not,” the doctor assures him. “We can discuss whatever you’re comfortable with. I want you to be honest with me, Spock.” She tilts her head by 15 degrees exactly. “It’s just my observation that instead of discussing yourself or your problems, you chose to make observations about me.”  
  
The upholstery of the chair grows marginally more irritating.  
  
Since the destruction of Spock’s mental compartmentalization 3.4 days ago—a system that had been the product of years of meditation, structuring, and self-control—he has been operating with a mental filing system. There are distinct barriers keeping thoughts and emotions from bleeding together, but gone are the towering walls that prevented him from suffering such illogical outbursts as this.  
  
Basically, Spock wants his phaser back so he can shoot the therapist’s overly cushioning chair.  
  
“Indeed,” Spock says solemnly. “I’m afraid that I don’t have much to discuss about myself that is not already within my personnel file.”  
  
His personnel file is quite... extensive. When he and T’Pring had applied for their officer’s commission, T’Pring had been infuriated by many of the questions.  
  
“They desire to know the preferences of our _childhood_ , Spock!” She had fumed. “An irrelevant series of information to this employment. It is without precedent!”  
  
Spock, eying his own application, had answered, “Perhaps they extrapolate psychological tendencies from this data.”  
  
T’Pring had scrolled down the application. “And this! They wish—no, they _demand_ that we list our dearest relationships and offer it up to their data cloud as if it were no more than an algebraic equation!” How her eyes had flashed when she looked at Spock. “These questions are invasive.”  
  
“These questions are not Vulcan,” Spock had argued, setting his own PADD aside. “If we are not to live as Vulcans, we must follow a new way. Their way.”  
  
T’Pring hadn’t appreciated that insight, but she’d ultimately filled out the rest of her application. She’d held it out to Spock unsent. As he’d looked up at her, she’d said, “You may read it.”  
  
“I will not.”  
  
T’Pring’s harsh gaze had softened. “Then I leave it to you. The Vulcan way yet remains open to us, Spock.” She'd crouched down to his side at the meditation mat, looking deep into his eyes. “We may turn back from this way. I fear I have… dictated our course overmuch in these past weeks. I would know your thoughts.”  
  
Spock had taken the PADD and regarded it silently. He'd then looked back at T’Pring.  
  
“It is the Vulcan way to discuss our choices logically and think our way through each outcome carefully and with the weight of all our knowledge.”  
  
“Affirmative.”  
  
Spock had continued to hold his wife’s gaze as he hit send without another word passing between them. T’Pring had raised her eyebrows and smiled.  
  
There are over 70 pages on them up in the Federation Archive now, on both Spock and T’Pring. At the very least, Doctor Myrceen has been granted clearance to read the entirety of Spock’s file. Spock does not know if she has similarly been given access to T’Pring’s. He finds he is not very interested. He has access to that file as well, but his promise remains true; he will never read it.  
  
Doctor Myrceen nods at Spock’s statement. “Spock, I’m going to ask you to do something you might not be very comfortable with.”  
  
Spock doubts that this will necessitate any major change in the course this afternoon is already taking.  
  
“I want you to pretend that there’s no such thing as a personnel file. I want you to tell me about yourself—everything you think is relevant to this meeting.” She watches Spock carefully, smile vanished into an expression of solemn attentiveness. “Do you think you can do that?”  
  
“Affirmative,” Spock says. He pauses, gathering his thoughts into a workable structure. “I am Officer Spock, of no planet but this one. I am an exile of Vulcan.” A flash of the planet’s rusted sky and towering stone spires flits through his mind, but Spock shoves the memory away. “As was my partner in the police force and wife of 6 years, 10 months, 2 days, and 23 hours.” Spock takes a deep breath before saying her name. “T’Pring.”  
  
Doctor Myrceen’s expression is openly sympathetic. Spock reviews the timeframe he’s stated to make sure he hasn’t accidentally included the past year in his calculations. He has not. The knowledge grounds him and he speaks with no more hesitation.  
  
“I am a highly efficient officer with an exemplary record,” Spock states. “Until 4 days ago, when I experienced an emotional meltdown leading to mandatory personal leave.” He tells Myrceen unblinkingly, “I am confident that I am prepared to return to active duty, but I require an objective assessment of my psychological state as adequate before I may do so.”  
  
“That’s all you want to say?” Doctor Myrceen asks. She’s scribbling something into a PADD, but her eyes are on Spock. Spock stamps down on the twist of irritation and curiosity in his gut. Doubt is unnecessary. He has spoken truthfully and need only wait for the doctor’s verdict.  
  
“I believe it is sufficient,” Spock says. “Do you disagree?”  
  
“No,” Doctor Myrceen says. “But I’ve noticed that you didn’t include any information about your personal life.”  
  
“My nutrition, fitness, and mental recreation are all within acceptable to superior parameters,” Spock informs her, feeling slightly as though he’s being accused of something. His tone is growing defensive. Spock stamps down on that too. “Do you believe that increased focus on these areas might ameliorate my psychological health?”  
  
“No, I believe you,” the doctor dismisses with a wave of her hands. Spock refuses to look at the coffee mugs again. “But what about your social health?”  
  
“Social health,” Spock repeats. Social health is defined by the ease with which one deals with personal encounters. Spock’s job is all about personal encounters. And then reading them their rights. In what way is his social health lacking?  
  
“Your friends,” Doctor Myrceen says, which makes Spock’s mouth pull down into a slight frown. “I understand that you may not have contact with your family members, but you’ve been on Token for over seven years. And you haven’t talked about your friends, or your neighbors, or your colleagues.”  
  
Spock could talk about his neighbors at length. He has new tenants in both apartments—and he suspects the rightmost to be dealing illegal drugs. He will investigate and most likely receive new neighbors for the eighth time this year. Unextraordinary, but Spock does not entirely mind sharing the insights about a personal case.  
  
“What about what you do for fun?” The doctor goes on before Spock can elaborate on his drug ring theory. “Not what you do because it maintains optimal physical or mental health—what do you do because it’s enjoyable?”  
  
Spock stares at her. “I perform my duties as a police officer.”  
  
Myrceen smiles at him. “It’s wonderful that you enjoy your work. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”  
  
“If I may,” Spock interrupts. She spreads her hands in a gesture of invitation. It only reminds him of the coffee mugs and Spock squashes another blip of annoyance. “I believe you refer to activities undertaken purely for a momentary sensation of pleasure, not to exact any significant lasting effect. Is this correct?” When Myrceen nods, Spock tells her, “Such things are illogical and an inefficient usage of time.”  
  
“So you’ve never gone somewhere to enjoy the scenery?” Myrceen asks, and Spock experiences another inopportune visual memory of Vulcan. “Never had a conversation just because another person’s opinions are interesting? Never eaten a snack just because it tasted good, never created something simply because its existence is beautiful to you? Never played a game of sport for the thrill of competition?”  
  
Spock sits rigidly in his chair, frowning at the examples. “You misunderstand—” he begins, but Myrceen isn’t done.  
  
“—Never experienced physical intimacy for pleasure?”  
  
“My wife is dead,” Spock blurts out.  
  
The air gets very still after that, which is an illogical thought. The air is composed of trillions of speedily vibrating gas molecules, air is the fastest moving state of matter—but for a moment it feels like they are something solid clogging Spock’s throat.  
  
Doctor Myrceen looks sympathetic again. It makes Spock’s fingers tighten into fists. “And I am so sorry for your loss.”  
  
Spock takes a deep breath. “Doctor. I accept my loss. I do not dwell on it.” He meets her gaze. “Neither do I seek any replacement for her, in any way. T’Pring was… unique.”  
  
“And that is your choice,” Myrceen tells him solemnly. “But Spock, you’re not answering my original question. What do you do for fun?”  
  
Spock hesitates. “I read.” This is technically true, even if 85% of his reading material involves relevant criminal cases. “I prepare my meals.” Spock knows that many humanoids consider this enjoyable, even if Spock is much less sentimental about the experience. Judging from Myrceen’s expression, he’s not deceiving her.  
  
“And what about your friends?” She asks.  
  
“I am… close with Christopher Pike,” Spock offers tentatively. Friendship is a difficult term, but he and Pike engage in social interactions that do not involve either of them getting arrested. And Pike often expresses a personal affection towards Spock. “We engage in discussion often.”  
  
“Christopher Pike… your command sergeant?” Myrceen asks. When Spock confirms this with a nod, she adds a little dryly, “A person you’re legally obligated to speak to whenever you make an arrest or file a case?”  
  
Spock nods. Those are the facts. Myrceen presses, “Well, do you see or speak to him at any time when you’re not on duty?”  
  
Spock frowns. “…To what purpose?”  
  
Myrceen gives him a long look and doesn’t answer. “What other friends do you have, Spock?”  
  
Spock stares back at her, taken aback. “Is one insufficient?”  
  
Again, Myrceen chooses not to answer. It is puzzling. Instead she places her hands flat on her desk and says, “Spock, I’m going to give you an assignment. You don’t have to do it, but I at least want you to think about it.”  
  
Illogical. Spock will have to think about whatever she says next, because he will hear it. Spock jams his irritation back down and nods. And Myrceen tells him, “I want you to go out and buy one item that you don’t need.”  
  
Spock’s eyebrow goes up. “Does the economy require stimulation?”  
  
“Don’t think about the ultimate purpose,” the doctor tells him, again ignoring his question. “It doesn’t need to be expensive. I just want you to buy one thing, and if you don’t like it later, you can always throw it away.”  
  
 _ILLOGICAL_ , screams every thought in Spock’s brain. Both his eyebrows are up, alarmed by his therapist’s potential nervous breakdown. Why won’t she tell him the purpose of this exercise? Does she have something to hide? His eyes dart to the slinky, and then back to her face.  
  
“I understand,” Spock says, understanding nothing outside of the fact that this woman is insane. “May I make an inquiry?”  
  
Doctor Myrceen smiles at him again. “Please.”  
  
“Do you intend to submit your approval of my psychological state?”  
  
The doctor continues to smile. Spock relaxes fractionally, because whatever issue she is taking with his lifestyle, it will not affect his job. Which is really the only important concern in this picture.  
  
And then she says, “Spock, I really don’t think that’s for the best.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last prewritten chapter... Gotta say, I'm kind of put out to be reaching the end of these. I'm going to have the most erratic update schedule ever after this, but I'm pretty determined too, so we shall just see how it pans out.
> 
> One does not improve by sitting and sulking on one's lazy ass, after all, so. There will be more updates. There will be a coherent plot. I did not do this much introductory footwork for nothing.
> 
> Next update (tentatively) for Wednesday.  
> \----

Upon this revelation, Spock is silent. After a moment, he asks, “Might I inquire as to your reasoning?”  
  
“I just don’t think it’s for the best,” Myrceen replies. Spock’s fists clench to stop a tremor.  
  
“Perhaps the most feasible method of treatment of this _perceived_ ailment would be identification,” Spock offers. “If you will inform me of the error I have expressed during our meeting, I will correct it.”  
  
He strongly suspects that Myrceen was unsatisfied by her evaluation of Spock’s personal life. If it will allow him to protect the streets of his home, Spock is… fairly sure of his ability to sustain an additional friendship. For as long as Myrceen requires.  
  
“Oh Spock,” Myrceen says sweetly. “You’re just going through a difficult time. Nothing about you is in error—except perhaps questioning your doctor.” She stands. Spock follows the suit automatically, and is less relieved than he expected to be off of the alarmingly cushioned chair.  
  
“I’ll schedule a meeting for two days from now, alright?” Myrceen says. It is not truly a question. Spock nods stiffly enough that he thinks his spine might be in jeopardy and leaves the premises.  
  
And then he calls Pike.  
  
“Spock here,” he says automatically, to which Pike snorts.  
  
“I know it’s you, dumbass. Who else would be calling me up on a civvie comm?”  
  
Ah, yes. This is a civilian device. Spock’s standard issue police gear where all confiscated before his hospital release. This item was dug out of a very dusty box in Spock’s closet. He takes a moment to give the communicator a dark look.  
  
“Spock? Still there?” Pike sounds somewhat concerned. Spock dimly recognizes that this will work in his favor.  
  
“You have assigned me to a madwoman,” he tells Pike, which really is putting it mildly. However, it makes Pike splutter like he’s having a fit.  
  
 _“What?”_  
  
“Doctor Elisha Myrceen,” Spock clarifies, swallowing down the venom that should accompany the doctor’s name. “The therapist Command selected. She is insane and unfit to diagnose my mental state. I request the immediate end of my suspension from ISF.”  
  
“You’re not under _suspension_ , Spock, this is a personal leave—“  
  
“Then you will have no trouble restoring me to active duty at my request!” Spock interrupts, momentarily losing volume control. He pauses to take a deep breath and speak more calmly. “Sergeant. She has deemed me unwell without provocation and provided me with no information on my state.” Anger is bleeding into his voice and Spock wants to hit something. This is not helping him make his point, and it is most inopportune. Pike sighs heavily down the line.  
  
“Yeah, you sound real stable, Spock.”  
  
Spock exhales in a hard blast, momentarily lowering the communicator to grab for his control. When he puts it to his ear again, Pike is saying, “Just give her a chance. You’ve needed a break for a while now.”  
  
Spock does not want to give Myrceen a chance. He also doesn’t want a break. He is not sure how to adequately phrase either desire without coming across as a petulant child complaining of a scolding. “I must protest.”  
  
“I’m listening,” Pike responds. To his credit, for once he doesn’t sound amused by Spock’s distress.  
  
Spock ends up muttering, “Being unable to report for duty will severely disrupt my routine.” And let’s face it, Spock has been clinging to that routine since T’Pring passed. He not only doubts Doctor Myrceen’s methods—he doubts that any healing will take place without the familiar responsibilities heaped upon him.  
  
What is he even supposed to do for the next few days?  
  
…Read, presumably. And cook.  
  
Spock experiences a moment of blood-curdling dread that he also suffocates in the mental filing cabinet. (At the very least, he might have the time to improve his emotional defenses. There’s that.)  
  
Pike sighs noisily again, and when he speaks this time, he sounds very old. “Look, Spock. This is out of my hands now. Marcus still has a grudge against you, and the best I could do was keep this from looking like a punishment. It’s departmental. You _have_ to be approved by this woman, or you’re out.”  
  
Spock closes his eyes against a rush of twisted fury. Scattered fears are braided into it, encouraging him to shout at his superior, but he does not. Pike is not his enemy.  
  
“Is there a time limit before the department determines that I am a liability?” Spock asks quietly.  
  
Pike tells him after a moment. “It looks like you’ve got twenty days.”  
  
A Token month, then. Better than Spock expected, given the circumstances—police brutality is not an entirely uncommon problem, but civilian endangerment is. The hovercar is probably earning him the lion’s share of this reprimand, of course. ISF is already underfunded enough—Spock doubts anyone is particularly happy that one more patrol car has been totaled. Besides, there’s always Captain Marcus behind the scenes. He’s never made a secret of his distaste for his Vulcan officers.  
  
Spock concludes that he has Pike to thank for such a generous time period.  
  
Nevertheless, the prospect of being gone for so long… Spock cannot entirely swallow down the bubble of panic in his throat.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Pike tells him. “You’ve got this in the bag. Your results are phenomenal and if the department heads start trying to overlook that, you’ve got me. Just focus on making nice with Doctor Myrceen.”  
  
 _Lovely_ , Spock thinks, remembering the coffee mugs. “I will do my best, Sergeant.”  
  
“Good luck.”  
  
And then Pike is gone. Spock looks skyward. The dominant sun blazes overhead, and three of the moons are currently visible. An unremarkable sky for an unremarkable day. Save for one fact: Spock is not out to patrol.  
  
…Now what will he do with the rest of his afternoon?

\----

The answer, as it turns out, is read.  
  
Spock spends the rest of the day reading for fourteen hours straight. He eventually runs out of local case files to go through and catches himself up on his studies in advanced particle physics. As he reads, he also dusts his apartment. He changes his bed sheets (prematurely, but not overly so). He methodically takes everything out of his closet to see if he’s forgotten any of the belongings stored in it. He has not. He methodically replaces all of his belongings.  
  
He takes a break from reading to meditate. He resumes his literary pursuits; reads up on politics, economics, and technological breakthroughs. More meditation follows. Clandestinely, Spock observes his neighbors and increases likelihood of their dealing drugs out of their apartment to 76%. He memorizes the faces of both teenage Andorians sneaking furtively back out, identifies them via the Archive, and sets their names aside for later investigation.  
  
He cooks and does not find it emotionally satisfying.  
  
He considers calling Pike again so he will be able to inform Doctor Myrceen and her self-important smile that Spock does in fact speak to Pike after hours. He wisely looks at the chronometer before carrying out this plan and observes that it is 03:00 hours in the morning. Spock determines that Pike will not welcome a call at this time.  
  
So he dusts the apartment again, washes the dishes twice, and goes to sleep two hours early.  
  
Spock therefore wakes up two hours early the next morning and is thoroughly and completely _miserable_.  
  
His physical, nutritional, and intellectual wellbeing are all intact. He’s miserable anyway. He very nearly throws the dust rag out of the window in a fit of irrational anger and then sits down and tries in earnest to meditate the misery away.  
  
If anything, after a two hour period of intensive spiritual exercises, he is actually more miserable.  
  
And now he is at last sufficiently miserable that he will carry out Doctor Myrceen’s assignment, if only to get out of his apartment before he does something unforgivable, like punching a hole in the wall just so he will have something to do. He will make her illogical, unnecessary purchase and prove that he will do anything for his job.  
  
So Spock heads to the Fire Market.

\----

Token City’s Fire Market is famous throughout the universe, drawing crowds of aliens to its overflowing boundaries. It is the largest market in the quadrant—the Fire Market covers approximately one half of the planet and stretches over 116 sectors—the exchange of capital that takes place there is over 1/6 of all economic flow that takes place in Federation space. You can purchase anything in all the worlds in this place, but likely will never find same artifact twice. As soon as a new good appears, it’s snapped up to the tones of practically religious haggling. Hence the name “Fire Market”—nothing outlasts the consumer’s passions.  
  
It is also the place where over 60% of all crimes on Token City take place. Therefore, it is the vending locale which Spock is most familiar with.  
  
Spock is still in R-6. He knows this logically, because he is capable of consciously mapping out the exact distance each step carries him. In fact, R-6 extends many kilometers yet; but it is a fact that Spock must remind himself of frequently. The twenty story buildings that totter overhead throughout his sector have been consumed. The streets are clogged with humanoid traffic—there are not streets left at all. There is just a crush of bodies and a thin walkway that can be chiseled through them and the tempest of mag stalls and vending carts. The noise pollution alone seems like a solid force, one prolonged inarticulate scream, and the sensory overload of _smelltouchtastecolormotion_ tangled around Spock leaves him with the impression of damaged sanity and some confusion about whether or not he just smelled a color or heard a texture.  
  
“Fresh _rubbo’lshi q’kai_ for sale! Best you’ll find east of Colony VIII—“  
  
“Azamium! Buy some azamium for your wife, for your daughter, think of—“  
  
“Property on Luumos-R, ladies, gentlemen, and others, get it while it’s hot—“  
  
“Selling like gold—“  
  
“Selling like starflower—“  
  
“Selling like the wagging tongues of the ice _gruur_ , now come on—“  
  
And that is just what is being shouted in Standard. The cries weave together in another inevitable day in Token City’s Fire Market. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
Spock, walking quietly through the vendors, is deeply out of his element.  
  
He’s in civilian clothes. He’s uncomfortable with this. Objectively, the soft knitted fabrics he brought with him from Vulcan are much more comfortable than the armored synthetic material of his uniform. However, Spock is overly conscious of his unprotected vital areas. He is displeased with the way the crowd swallows him as one of their own instead of clearing for a police officer to stride through. The vendors attempt to sell to him, which is also foreign. Regardless of whether or not making a purchase was Spock’s intention in coming here, he finds he resents the attention.  
  
“The finest gems straight from Andoria! Right this way, sir—“  
  
Spock huddles deeper in his cloak, shielding himself from contact as he buffets his path through the crowd.  
  
Coming here felt like a very good idea after Doctor Myrceen cast aspersions on Spock’s social capacity. Where does one more come into contact with such a diverse range of people and goods? Now that he’s here, however, Spock feels somewhat overwhelmed by the choices. He compulsively analyzes what exactly this particular purchase will indicate to Doctor Myrceen, and finds nothing satisfactory.  
  
A snack. Unnecessary at this time, and therefore applicable to Myrceen’s assignment. It will leave no lasting clutter, which is satisfactory. However: will the doctor read into Spock’s unwillingness to leave a lasting impression of her assignment on his life?  
  
Something concrete then… cosmetics? Spock certainly has no use for them. It could be beneficial to develop an interest in common with the doctor so as to develop personal affinity and increase the likelihood she will clear him for duty. However: will his following her specific suggestion of an interest be seen as inflexibility and a lack of personal creativity in determining new personal interests?  
  
Inconclusive. Something else. Clothing? Spock could wear them to the next appointment, and therefore provide proof of purchase. However: Spock doesn’t want civilian clothes. He wants his ISF uniform back.  
  
He could always get the T’meranian iguana one salesman is trying desperately to sell him.  
  
“Is cheap, very cheap, good product,” warbles the man in very strained standard. He’s waving at an assortment of brightly colored cages dangling bells—within them is a species of large lizard. Presumably, as the sign below loudly declares, these would be T’meranian iguanas.  
  
“Like _ikhsssatheht_ of old, yes? You buy.” The man nods vigorously in agreement with his own statement.  
  
Spock might be out of practice with market rules, but he’s fairly certain that the salespeople are not permitted to dictate Spock’s purchases without his consent. “Negative,” he informs the salesman. “I desire no such creature.”  
  
  
“I will not,” Spock replies with a frown. He is not appraised of the significance of the winks. Is it a standard physiological response, or an indication of price? Regardless, Spock is more concerned about the unshakable grip on his arm and the fact that one of the lizards is letting out a rattling hiss and advancing towards Spock in a way that can only be described as ‘predatory’. Unfamiliar with this organism and its long-range defense mechanisms, Spock very much wants to retreat from the cages.  
  
“Very cheap, good quality,” the salesman babbles, grip absolutely unshakable. There is something predatory in his gaze too, which Spock is accustomed to seeing at the other end of weapons instead of in a salesman utterly unacquainted with Standard expressions of “no.”  
  
Spock’s go-to here is: arrest the man for disturbing police business. That is entirely out of the question. For one thing, his tagger has been confiscated.  
  
He could always try to remove the salesman from his person by force. But judging from this particular species’ strength and his persistence when it comes to making a purchase, Spock isn’t confident of his ability to do so without the affair developing into full-blown assault charges. Which, no, would not bolster his claims of sanity.  
  
And he’s not buying the lizard. That would practically be an admission that Spock expects to be in his apartment for prolonged periods of time. This will not happen because Spock is going to be put back on patrol very soon.  
  
“I am not buying any animal,” Spock states one last time. The vendor continues to babble and flail at his cargo of agitated iguanas. This time Spock responds by taking a deep breath, reaching for the calm at the center of himself, and shutting off his senses one by one.  
  
Surrounded by the tranquil emptiness of a sensory null, Spock wraps the peace around his thoughts. It is almost a meditative state—if an extremely moderate one—and Spock lowers his heart and respiration rates to secure a sense of physiological serenity before eventually switching his sensory pathways back on. He drops his hearing rate by 50% and tunes the salesman’s rambling out to a dull hum.  
  
Sooner or later, the man is bound to grow an understanding of Spock’s refusal and leave to pursue other potential customers. In the meantime, Spock challenges his senses on the Fire Market around him. Perhaps inspiration as to what he _should_ buy lies in the crowd…  
  
He actually could use a new meditation mat. There is a Betazoid selling an assortment that looks suitable a few stalls over. Perhaps…  
  
But no, Doctor Myrceen has specified that Spock’s purchase had to be pointless. He must take care to stick to her arbitrary and tasteless rules.  
  
Spock absently tests the salesman’s grip on his arm (note: still vice-like) and subsides back into thought exactly 43.5 seconds before a sharper hum (new voice, proximal distance 3.4 meters and closing, volume indicates a demand for attention) reverberates by his ear. An arm that slings around Spock’s shoulders.  
  
Threat registered, Spock’s hearing immediately jolts up to 100% capacity and he shifts his weight back sufficient to apply discouraging force to his assailant’s ribs.  
  
“—been looking everywhere for him! But this one just gets lost so easy, I’m sure you know how it is—“ filters into Spock’s ears before the blow landed. His gaze is met with a Terran human, by all accounts nonthreatening, and as he glances Spock’s way, he becomes abruptly familiar.  
  
“Jim,” Spock murmurs, startled.  
  
Jim’s gaze flickers back to the salesman. “So I’ll just be taking my boyfriend now,” he says, and squeezes Spock close.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowww, this was easy to write. And I say that given the fact that Oh My Sweet Golly Gosh, the update for Classical Brilliance and Dumb Blondes failed SO HARD.  
> It'll be up on... eventually. Someday. I don't even know. Before the week ends.  
> Anyway, this turned out okay! Tho' Jim is probably at least a little evil.  
> I totally dedicate this one to the lovely plyushka, who has been much frustrated by UST in these fics. You're awesome, utterly awesome. :D  
> \----

Spock does not have difficulties with aural perception, so he does not repeat Jim’s phrasing. He stares instead. He should probably blink, but he finds it difficult to do so. He wishes to make a mental note of this, but at the moment, he’s been neatly derailed from ordered thought.  
  
Jim’s eyes are hypnotically blue and staring expectantly—he tugs Spock’s arm again. Additionally, the lizard salesman is watching them. This is dismissed as functionally irrelevant. Jim is here. The odds are against it by a longshot, but this is fact; out of the vastness of the Fire Market, Jim is in front of Spock.  
  
Perturbingly, he is also claiming romantic affiliations that do not exist. _Boyfriend?_  
  
Jim’s gaze has gone a little bit flinty with purpose. _Come on. Don’t argue._ When Spock stops digging his heels in and takes a short step towards him, this somehow breaks the salesman’s hold. Jim peels him away from the stall and leads him into the writhing crowd like Spock always allows Jim to inhabit his personal space. Spock permits this, counting off the seconds until he desires to separate them. This moment doesn’t come. Jim’s mind flows over Spock’s barriers like warm water, rinsing away the sensation that Spock should ever not want to be touched.  
  
So he stumbles after Jim, off-balance as though some vital sense remains muted from his meditation. He should run a diagnostic. He should do many things. Jim eventually stops pushing forward and hunches his shoulders inward. Spock feels the tremor in Jim’s body before he hears it—and then Jim is laughing.  
  
“Oh my god,” the Terran chokes out between giggles, “Your _face._ I want a hologram. That was beyond priceless.” Spock stares blankly ahead. When he laughs, Jim’s mind feels like melted sweetness and butterfly wings, almost too saccharine to stomach ( _desist, reroute train of thought_ ). Jim grins up like he’s not clawing Spock’s control to pieces, and snickers, “So, get hit on often, Officer?”  
  
Alright, that is enough. _DESIST._  
  
Spock disentangles himself in two efficient moves and puts exactly two steps between him and his unexpected companion. If it perturbs the Terran, it doesn’t show; Jim grins at him, grubby hands stuffed into ratty pockets, and looks endlessly amused. The smirk should be irritating, but now Spock’s mind batters him with connotations. Jim’s mind is beautiful when he’s smiling that shit-eating grin. This feels like an objective observation. This is _not_ an objective observation.  
  
Spock refuses to have another melt down in a public place.  
  
He reinforces his shields furiously and points out as coldly as possible, “It seems to be an activity you enjoy, in particular.”  
  
“Not gonna lie,” Jim answers brightly. “You’re kind of hot when you look so uncomfortable that you’re about to climb out of your starchy collar. So how about it?” He waggles his eyebrows. “I could stand a little _Vulcan lovin’._ ”  
  
Consider the solemnity of the conversation so far. Statistical probability that this question is being posed seriously: 36%. Considering Spock’s less than ample experience with Terran mating behaviors, that number decreases to a 15% chance that Spock actually understands what Jim is pretending to offer.  
  
Outcome: impro— _why is Spock running the statistics on this._  
  
Jim winks at him. This is encouraging. Spock actually experiences annoyance, not another unpleasant burst of longing for the human’s skin.  
  
“Well,” Jim says, grin flagging after Spock does nothing but stare at him and frantically seek statistical reinforcement for his sanity. “I begin to understand why you get sleazy off-world vendors crawling all over you, then. Words are for using, my friend. N-O, Spock, sound it out.”  
  
Spock’s frown deepens. “Your patronization is offensive and unmerited. I am aware of Standard linguistic refusals.” _I also applied them, to no effect._  
  
“You unintentionally flirting with the shopkeeps is what’s offensive,” Jim responds childishly, and crooks a finger at Spock. “Come on, let’s stop dicking around.” This statement delivered, he turns and starts walking away. Jim is all but swallowed into the crowd in under a second. Spock has no desire to follow him and prolong this embarrassing encounter. Spock has Doctor Myrceen’s ridiculous assignment to carry out and furthermore, Jim’s expectation that Spock will trip after him like a favored pet should not be encouraged.  
  
Spock pushes into the crowd, anger bubbling under his shields. Jim’s mess of blonde hair is only barely visible for a moment, and then Spock is in step with him, close enough to touch and adamant in his refusal to do so.  
  
Jim, in addition to not checking if Spock has followed him, has also not checked to see if Spock is listening. This, apparently, does not prevent him from continuing to chatter. “—no idea what you’re even doing here. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were following me.”  
  
Spock curbs the impulse to glower at the back of Jim’s neck. If anyone is being pursued in this scenario, it’s Spock. Pointedly, Spock asks, “Why did you falsify your status as my romantic partner, Jim?”  
  
Jim glances at him. He looks _just_ pleased enough for Spock to realize that Jim did indeed take into account the fact that Spock might not follow. It is childish delight, the kind that comes with a cookie or a new toy. Before Spock can quite catalogue the expression, it’s swallowed up in another smug leer and Jim is saying, “Because you looked like you were about to saw your own arm off to escape from marketplace flirting and I felt sorry for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”  
  
Spock withholds his doubtless sincere thanks.  
  
“You look like shit,” Jim informs him, which is contrary to everything else he’s stated thus far. It also feels closer to the truth than Jim has gotten in the past 15.6 minutes. Spock concedes that the statement is likely accurate. Basically, he feels ‘like shit’. Jim scratches his head and puzzles, “What are you doing out of uniform? I thought you green-blooded types were all about living for the job.”  
  
Spock is not obligated to answer. Jim’s brilliant eyes scrawl across his face. Spock is in full control of all facial muscles and he makes sure Jim’s analysis offers no information.  
  
Jim shrugs eventually, sending the collar of his jacket flopping askew. Spock averts his eyes from the pale, dirty skin underneath while his fingers twitch at his side.  
  
Spock lets Jim elbow them a path through the Fire Market. Not another word passes between them, and Spock doesn’t buy anything. Jim, in stark comparison to Spock’s discomfort, could not be more at home in his own skin. He belongs to this place—not necessarily the market, but Token City, in all its glittering, filthy glory. He can be nothing more than a tourist, and it is odd, then; Jim parallels this place better than Spock could ever manage after a decade of service.  
  
Spock lets Jim lead because he doesn’t have any worthwhile directions left to follow.  
  
Jim takes him to a dive like the one Spock met Jim in originally. With a crooked grin, Jim abandons Spock to a table that appears to be mostly composed of gray scum. Spock proceeds to hypothesize the microbial diversity hosted on its surface until Jim returns with two mugs that smell like rocket fuel, drops one off right under Spock’s nose, and knocks back his own in one gulp. Spock leans away from the olfactory horror that is coming from the beverage. Jim sets his mug down and eyes him again from across the table.  
  
“So. Are you going to freak out again?” When Spock just raises an eyebrow, unwilling to take offense at such a blatant attempt at baiting, Jim’s teeth flash. “Or is it just that you’re pissed off and miserable because they took your badge?”  
  
Spock takes a deep breath. 15.4 seconds elapse. In this period of time, he has located every potential weapon in this room ( _315, unusually high. Analyze when convenient_ ) Jim seems to recognize that Spock is contemplating Alternative Arrest Procedures for the Suspended Officer, but instead of retreating, he crosses his arms and locks his gaze to Spock’s challengingly. “You want to tell me I’m wrong?”  
  
“I’m considering how you might know of facts that are not available to the public,” Spock replies. He can obtain a weapon for leverage 3.4 seconds before Jim. His location is advantageous.  
  
“I’m really observant?” Jim supposes with exaggerated thought. He adds brightly, “And I make a whole lot of lucky guesses!”  
  
“The concept of luck is a fallacy brought on by coincidence and skewed perception,” Spock informs him blandly. Jim laughs, bright and alarming in the middle of the disgruntled, inebriated quiet. Seventeen individuals look over at them.  
  
“Guessed that you’d follow me here, didn’t I?” Spock can’t think of anything to respond with except a barrage of statistics. The Terran is staring again, chewing his lip. Spock recognizes his body language—hunched but leaning forward, eyes moving quickly, but always returning to Spock’s face. Fidgeting. He has something to ask. Spock also determines that Jim isn’t going to voice it yet. Instead, Jim raises his empty mug in a salute. “Shit, Officer. Being sacked sucks. You’ll want to be drunk for the first week of it at least—I promise I can help you with that.”  
  
“No thank you,” Spock replies, and pushes his foul-smelling mug to Jim’s side of the table. “I have not been sacked.” At Jim’s pursed lips, Spock grumbles, “…I am on suspension.”  
  
“ _Shit_ ,” Jim says emphatically, and Spock fails to be offended by the profanity or the semblance of understanding. Although Jim is Terran—an alien—and does not understand, Spock’s anger stays quiescent. Spock is disgusted by this entire establishment and still wants to touch Jim again because when their thoughts meet, he forgets how painfully _useless_ he feels right now.  
  
Jim’s hand is suddenly across the table, touching the back of Spock’s hand. Inappropriate, whether the Terran understands the significance of the action or not. Spock jerks his hand away before Jim can make him feel any better; Jim steals his mug in the same motion. “You’re not handling this very well.” This is not a question. “I mean, this whole time you haven’t said anything even remotely threatening. You look like someone stole your ice cream.”  
  
It’s a bizarre comparison. Spock has never encountered an organism that is literally _sustained_ by its devotion to ice cream.  
  
“Do you wish to be threatened?” Spock asks, narrowing his eyes at the Terran. “This is an unhealthy predilection. Desist at once.”  
  
“Bite me,” Jim replies with a gorgeous smile. He follows this up with, “Why don’t you leave the ISF?” While Spock’s thought process screeches to a halt at this utterly unexpected line of questioning, Jim adds, “You’re wasted on them.”  
  
Spock’s brain provides a wall of well-founded logic. “The ISF has employed an increasing number of androids to account for the lack of competent personnel, to much public acclaim. Robotic officers are expected to fully replace all organic units within this century, but current statistics still indicate that organic officers maintain consistently superior efficiency of crime management. We remain necessary—“  
  
Jim’s smile is unfairly warm over his mug. “God, you are fucked up, aren’t you?” He says wonderingly, and his tone makes it into an unexpected compliment. Spock blinks. “I didn’t say that you could be replaced. I’m saying that the ISF is pathetic and you have no business wasting yourself on them.” While Spock blinks again and his heart rate elevates outside of normal parameters, Jim’s body language somehow shifts to become overpoweringly persuasive. Spock can identify each component attempting to coerce him into agreement. But these details cannot account for the completed effect.  
  
“Ditch them,” Jim says, seductive in a way that Spock cannot even properly _name_. “I know some people—I can find you a better job. Someplace that could actually use a fast-driving, ass-kicking, socially awkward Vulcan like you. I’ll even still call you ‘Officer.’” He leans closer. Spock is completely fixated on the pressure of Jim’s smirk. Like this, Jim is near enough for his reduced body temperature to make Spock shiver. “What do you say?”  
  
Spock regards him unblinkingly. “I am 95.67% certain that you are offering me illegal employment.” He’s only 85.5% certain, actually; but he awards extra points to a smile that makes him want to forget all coherent reasoning.  
  
His words make the Terran’s grin expand.  
  
“This is Token. If it’s legal, it’s lame.” When all Spock does is hold his gaze and resist its charm, the Terran whispers hoarsely, “Spock, I’m going to let you in on a secret.” He gestures at the table in all its slimy glory. Spock observes passively, and keeps his hands pinned to his sides, where they cannot reach for the human. “Those ales were actually completely foul. Waste of my credits.”  
  
Jim falls back into his seat and looks completely satisfied with himself. Spock, accordingly, checks to make sure he still has his wallet. “Why drink them, if you were displeased by their composition?”  
  
“Bought them, didn’t I?” Jim heaves a dramatic sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re supposed to drink what you pay for. But that doesn’t make it not laaame, Officer.” Jim appears extremely pleased by his metaphor. Spock thinks he could do better. He is not sure where this confidence comes from, only that Jim’s lazy grin is hiding something sharp and his body language is still—while compelling Spock to agree to whatever this Terran wants—persistently informing Spock that Jim has a question. Jim has also raised his shoulders by half a centimeter. He is feeling defensive. Spock cannot discern why.  
  
More specifically, Spock is actively enforcing his ignorance. He does not want to know why. T’Pring would be ashamed of him. She always found cowardice reprehensible.  
  
Spock breaks the eye contact between them. Uninfluenced, his thoughts coalesce back into a familiar, rigid structure. Without quite recognizing how tense his muscles had grown, Spock relaxes. Bu the time he looks back across the table, Jim’s body language is boneless and unassuming. It could be the alcohol, but it isn’t. Jim’s smile looks just the slightest bit threatening, and Spock suddenly understands why the salesman let Spock go without a fight when faced with one babbling Terran.  
  
…Spock should go.  
  
He stands to do so, and then pauses. Goes rigid all over again. Spock’s eyes scan the room—this time, he pays attention and doesn’t allow himself to be distracted by the man across from him. He exhales slowly, and analyzes those 315 potential weapons. Softly, Jim asks, “Spock? What is it?”  
  
“Vacate the premises,” Spock tells Jim just as quietly, barely moving his mouth. He stands then, and projects mildly drunken thoughtlessness into his stride. He heads for the bar, where a sweaty Terran bartender has been cleaning the same patch of the bar for the past ten minutes.  
  
At least three of the men in here are not customers. At least one of them has a trigger somewhere on his person. The drinks are gone and Spock still feels dizzy—over the chatter of the bar, he can faintly make out a suprasonic pulse.  
  
Chances of this being the trigger to a bomb: 77%.


End file.
